Mutts and Victors, We're All Just The Same, Right?
by WolvesRunWild
Summary: I am already burnt. Already dead. I've already done what you want of me. But I guess life just comes along for the thrill of it. Everyone knows LIVE backwards is EVIL. Everyone knows that I'm not worrying about you. Or maybe I am. (Katniss and peeta grow back together, I like to think its non-cliche. One-shot. I just ruined my chances of you reading it in 2 sentences, didn't I.)


I don't know what day of the week it is.

I don't know how long I've stayed here.

I don't even know if I'm alive.

All I know is that Prim is not here. Or Peeta. Sometimes I am conscious, sometimes I'm not. But the one thought keeps racing through my head, but never getting through to my brain:

Prim is dead and Peeta hates me.

Prim is dead and Peeta hates me.

Prim is dead and Peeta hates me.

I think Greasy Sae feeds me, makes me drink. But I'm not aware of the world around me. And I like it like that. There was a time, just after Peeta planted the Primroses, when I thought I was better, no- thought I was ok. I went to the woods, visited town. But then, one day, I sat and just stayed there. That's when it clicked.

That thought.

And it never stopped.

So I let it.

Now days collapse into each other. I have to get this out of my head. My thoughts wonder to Haymitch. How does he do it? With drink. Maybe that's it, drink. It'll be the same, just... Happier. Better. So I stager to the cabinet in the kitchen and pull out bottles and bottles of every alcohol.

Liquor.

Beer.

Wine.

Vodka... All of it. The liquor sears down my throat and the wine melts. Each moves differently, but soon I don't realise that. Prim's alive right? She's just waiting over by the Meadow, with her goat. She's waiting for someone... Its me.

Its me.

Its me.

Its me.

I have to go to her, reach out what I lost. Clattering metals are symphonies. Haymitch was right, he knows... Oh, God, blood. But that's the next step, right? The next step to her...

I'm coming Prim.

Almost there.

Pain is just a side effect to happiness. Real or Not Real?

Real.

I pass out, I'm there, because when I wake its warm and cosy and clean. Like a bed. Then it comes. First the voices. Booming through my skull. Then the axe in my mind. I picture Johanna looming over me, axe in hand, hacking me to pieces. How does Haymitch bear this every day?

The colours are screaming at me too loudly.

The voices too bright.

The feel of the bed too bitter.

The taste of life too numb.

There's two, no, one person above me. I think one is Haymitch or... "Peeta?" the word fumbles through my lips, tripping over my tongue.. It must be him because at the sound he seems to collapse onto me. His eyes. The only thing in focus.

Blue.

Vibrant.

Warm.

Intense.

Not clouded, how? I reach up to touch him, when the sight of my wrists stops me. They are bandaged. I am now aware of a band around my waist. It must be a bandage. My gaze must sy it all because Peeta answers my unspoken question, "You- you..." Peeta, always so good with words, reduced to stuttering, "You drank way too much, Katniss, you were practically dead," he takes my hand in his, its warm but the bandages prevent feeling, "We don't know if you did it to yourself or... But you were lying in a puddle of alcohol, glass and- and... Blood. Your blood. Your wrists were ripped to shreds and your stomach had a wound in it. Why? Why? Why?"

To join Prim.

To join Finnick.

To join Rue.

A tear runs down his face. The crying mutt. He knows I remember nothing. How could I? Peeta stands and walks to the door, turning only briefly at the end, "Did I really love you once?" the comment makes to reach for another bottle. He shuts the door behind him so I am alone and the silence hurts more than the drink. For days it continues.

I sit.

I think.

I drink.

Not as much, but enough to wash away thoughts and memories. That night is still there though. When Peeta asked if he had really loved me. I thought he was ok, he was ok! His eyes were clear! He was his normal self! Unless- impossible.

It cant be.

Or maybe it is.

It would be perfectly plausible.

He's fine, better, ok. But he doesn't want to be close to me because of what I am. What I have become. I don't know of the depth but its definitely there. Its pours over me like icy water.

I want to change.

I have to change.

For myself, for Peeta, for Prim and for all the others I couldn't save.

Its dark now. Usually I would have the liquor out by now. Instead I'm resolving to hunt tomorrow. But I can't wait until dawn. It seems that the lack of alcohol over the past days has built up into a tsunami of nightmares, ready to crash over me at the slightest signs of being sober. My dreams leave me screaming when I wake. Unimaginable fear of the impossible. I have to know he's there. But all I can do is scream.

I have not choice.

I am the slave of the ground clenching iron fists of gold around my bound ankles.

I am the critic they fear to please.

I am the fire they want to burn.

I am the ashes from the wood I will never receive from beyond that fence.

I have to get out of here. Now. Stumbling blindly, I leave my bed and cascade down the stairs to the door. I am met with a blast of wind that almost draws me back inside. But I carry on.

I am the slave.

Through the streets an empty lanes. This is the first time I have properly seen 12 since- since the bombing. There are only a few changes now. The crops that are littered around the houses, the lack of coal dust. But it is still 12, still my home and I couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

I am the critic.

I wonder what life would be like if I had come from the ruthless structure of 11, or the Capitol loving boundaries of 1 or 2. Certainly it wouldn't be like this. No forest hunting. No star crossed lovers. No Peeta. The thought makes me stagger faster until I realise that at some point I must've crossed the fence, if its still even there, because I am surrounded by the familiar trees.

I am the fire.

Now that I am focused on where I am, I can't shake the feeling of being watched. I feel pairs of eyes on my back and, when I turn to find empty darkness, in front of me. That's when the shapes appear. Slinking in the shadows like ember in a fire. A flash of amber eyes here and there. Then it clicks. Wild dogs. As it does, I take a step back and this time, no one is there to hear me scream.

I am the ashes.

This is how the Mockingjay, who survived the hunger games twice and was a symbol of rebellion, will die. Mutilation by a pack of hungry dogs. At first I tried to fend them off. But it was useless. Pain soars straight through me whilst holding me with an iron grip. I can see it, right in front if me, death.

My eyes are closed.

I am ready to submit.

The piercing fangs stops with an abrupt howl. And through my lashes, I see a pair of eyes looking at me. Perhaps I will be saved, survive despite the flesh ripping agony. But then it hits. I wont. Because these eyes aren't blue.

They are not the thunderous grey of the promised storm.

They are not the green from relentless waves.

They are the misted fogs that roll over hills. They are the eyes of the blind. They are the eyes of the lost. They are the eyes of the hijacked.

Why, when the waves crest over their ragged stone counterparts in relentless rhythm, do we allow ourselves unforgiven pitiful holes in realities of unconsciousness. We, the forgiven beings in the wonderings of matter, a crossroad in our path is met with indecision before the smooth shimmers of unnerving dissolved footholds are chosen above rewards of promise. Heart spilled among mind is mix so potent that He Himself may hide in gracious curfews. They are our crossroads. Though, for sometimes, while body rests, the mind eases into resentful wonders, though so dull illuminated colours, such a mix may only be met by those who search dreams from nightmares. They are Dreamwalkers. Horrors of such power plague over our thoughtful stupidity. Thinking for less than minutes allow will rise identity to mind's practise of such Dreamwalkers, as so much of days past with epiphanies missed in clouds of judgement. Action can cut through granite as much as thoughts we'll never have. That is the fire we look for. The fire burned not from coal but from extravagant fireplaces. But all we find is fire burnt from charred wood.

I don't want to open my eyes. I wont. Most of the time I enjoy the limbo, I don't want to move and face the world. But then sometimes it comes.

One voice.

One word.

One person.

Slicing through the rest as painful and vivid as a paper cut. That's my test. Because it makes me want to resurface. I feel trapped under water, struggling to breath. Then it happens one day. I decide. I make up my mind.

Stay or go.

Stay or go.

Stay or go.

Do they need me? Not all of them. But what about the ones that do? So I do it. I strain to swim for the shifting glimmer of the surface. But it is hard. There is a current. It wants to drag me deeper.

Those points my resolve can crack, but never splinter and snap.

So when I am a moment, a millimeter, away from touch air again, his voice comes again and I immerge from my confinement. The first thing I see is him.

Always him.

He is shoved to the side, replaced with a doctor and my mother, but I never move my eyes of him. I am in my room. In my bed. Like nothing changed. People cry. Others smile. The doctor takes what feels like endless measurements I cant help but let out a small smile when Haymitch arrives and tells me how didn't want his hard work going to waste.

Always him.

And he returns it, though his eyes are pools of relief and shock. When everyone leaves and he stands and turns to walk away I have no choice but catch his arm. He tenses, though not because of his hijacking experience, but probably because he thinks something stupid like it was his fault. Like always. And I think its mine. As always. Contradiction, then compromise. I can see he wants to shake me off.

"It was you," I say, "That made me come back."

That gets him. He is so shocked he relaxes and resumes his seat next to me. "What happened? How many days was I out?" his expression turns to worry. I take his hand, "tell me everything."

"You woke up screaming. I heard you. I wanted to go over, to comfort you. But I saw you leave. I followed you, but got held up by the fence until I found the hole. Then I had to find you. When I did, you were being attacked by dogs. Y-y-you were dead, or about to die. I thought I could save you but... I had an episode. The sight of your body, so bloody and torn. I had to fight. It was like the arena but 100 times harder. Eventually I beat it. I think its had some sort of effect, over coming it like that, I never get them unless there's a massive trigger pointing me in the face. Anyway, I took you back home as fast as possible. Rang your mother and Dr Auralius, who were there within the hour. They set to work, fancy equipment to feed and monitor you. You were in a coma for 3 weeks. Then, one day, you just woke up." a single tear trickles down his cheek.

One tear.

One face.

One person.

I reach up and wipe it away. "I'll always be here, I'll never leave you," I promise. And this time, I mean it truly. Soon after the exchange, I fall asleep. When I wake, though, I am pleased and then confused. Because I had no nightmares.

Then I hear Peeta, besides me.

He must've climbed in next to me. I am not scared or annoyed, only relieved and untouchably happy. Then I notice and it jolts me into a pit of panic. He is as white as a sheet, sweating and clammy, his breath in rasping gasps.

He is dead.

He is dying.

He will die.

I grip his shoulders, shake him, beg him to wake. Peeta doesn't. Suddenly, I know what to do. Lying next to him, I mutter soothing words of comfort in his ears and stroke his hair back carefully. The effect is immediate. He relaxes, his fists unclench and his eyes flutter open. We face each other, not daring to say a word. The presence of the past aches uncontrollably off the walls, the silence begging be broken.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

But I do not have a Cornacopia to give me weapons like comfort, so I have to stick through it and evade it. Like the poison fog. Perhaps the arenas do help you, they are constantly reflected in your life. Its like someone stabbing you, then offering you the bandages and medicine for it. That's how the Games worked. Get you down then laugh at you, but you don't notice because your too busy accepting their gifts. We may have been together before, building Peeta's nightmare just throws into the light what cannot be understated.

We will always be apart.

Even if I do love him.

Because the games have severed my ties with anything other myself. I can never get close to anyone because my fear is greater than my hope and even Peeta's clever tongue can never manipulate my mind into changing that. I am what I scorn: a piece of their games. I guess I always was. Because between the Hunger, the Games and the Capitol, I am now unrecognisable though everyone knows my face. I brought down the controlling government who slaughtered children for fun, but I never did anything. They just got me too and, in the process, changed me.

Just a playing piece.

A card to be exchanged between sides.

One moment with the Capitol, the next with the rebellion.

So I guess I'm more of a piece of the Games than if Peeta had died and it would have been just me lured into the jewels and parties. Peeta's hand rests on my cheek, his thumb gently caressing my face. Perhaps I can trick myself into thinking that nothing matters but him. At some point he leaves just as soundlessly and I just stay, watching the spot where his body rested moments ago.

Where he body will never be again.

Where he will never comfort me again.

Where he believes I love him.

But the worst part is...

I do.

Eventually, I stretch my limbs, relatively painless. Relatively. I make my way downstairs. At the first sign of a mirror, I stare at my reflection.

Old scars are like excruciatingly familiar old friends beneath new marks dominating my body. Just like everything that was good before in my life.

New scars are a thick web of untold tales of cowardice that everyone knows. Just like the Hunger Games.

I can't go to the woods. The bad memories scare me. But not as much as the good ones. I make my way to tow. Buy a bowl of soup from Greasy Sae, who I'm pleased to find has returned to 12 with her old business. I seek out old friends, find out who has left.

Hazel can eat.

Rory can hunt.

Posy can play in the street.

Its perfect, seamless.

Its terrifying.

Where is Gale? Where is the gaping hole in their lives? Where is the grief at their son and brother moving away? He was never there, just a figment of someone's imagination. I want to scream at them to stop being happy and grieve. Of course I don't. I just say a few words and leave. Because I know where Gale is. And its the same place as the games he loathed so much.

I return at sunset to find Peeta has left me a loaf of bread and half a dozen cheese buns. Maybe for the first time in my life, the thought of them disgusts me and at the first sight of them, I leave to my room.

So he is still here.

Still haunting me.

Still asking for me to be brave like him. But I'm not.

I'm a coward.

So I do the only thing I know how to do, ignore it and move on. In this case its moving into sleep rather than an arena of people and mutts vying for the honour of ripping my throat. Oh, wait, they're the same thing. For a while, at least, the sleep is a comfortable getaway. But it doesn't last long. I wake up in the night, not being able to shake the feeling something is wrong. How many times has that happened?

I look out the window to Peeta's bedroom, where I see his silhouette sitting up in bed.

Why?

Could he not sleep either?

Did the idea of it repulse him?

Admittedly, I am concerned. A little. Or maybe a lot.

The wind is cold, biting at me, probably saying to turn back because I won't like what I see. I guess it didn't get the memo that I don't listen to good advice.

Oh, wait, no. That's not true. I listened once.

He told me to stay alive.

Look where that got me.

The door is unlocked. Padding up the stairs, I push open his door. Immediately, Peeta's head snaps to me and his hand clasps around a knife. Just like the knife he used to stab a mutt. But I'm not a mutt, right? Not now that he's better...

He said his episodes had all but gone.

All but.

And I guess in fantasy land, I'm anything from a mutt to a lover.

On seeing me he relaxes, but still looks panicked. That's new.

Still alive.

Walking over to him stiffly, still wary, I sit besides him and gently push him back into bed and hold his face in my hands.

Still alive.

"Stay with me?" the question makes me smile,

"Always." this time, however, its my rough broken voice.

Still alive.

I slip into bed besides him and his arms quickly encircle me as mine do the same to him. We lay for a moment and I am sure he is asleep, when he murmurs,

"I said the same thing to you on the train in the Quarter Quell, real or not real?"

"Real," I answer. So he remembers.

Peeta and I soon fall into standard practise. Each day, we will go about our business and, in the evening, either I will give him some game or he will give me some bread or cheese rolls. Then, by soundless agreement, we will retreat to bed and guard one another from the night. It works better than any drink could have done.

-AMAZING LINE BREAK-

Sunlight flits through the canopy, catching spotlights of the forest floor in its gaze. Arrow poised, I crouched behind a thick row of bushes, my eyes never leaving my target. He is magnificent. Antlers twisted beautifully upon his bronze head, smooth and lean. Muscles rippling as they shift under a golden pelt. Not to mention the amount of meat on him.

A stag.

Never before have I shot one alone. My shaft is poised, ready to strike. Positioned to skewer where the beast will die instantly. He lowers his broad head, blissfully unaware, in perfect position.

3... He's just like me...

2... But the arrow is Peeta, about to thud into my heart...

1... Wait, what?

The whistle of the arrow is followed by a thud that shakes the forest as the stag falls to his side, defeated. I can barely contain my triumph. I inspect the specimen. He is whole, perfect even in death. I think of what Gale would say, had he been here, when he saw me haul it into town. That's when I notice a fundamental flaw.

I cannot carry it.

It is too heavy. I begin to drag him and by nightfall the fence is in sight, so I should be safe from dogs or bears. But my arms have practically been dragged from their sockets. I am sore, stiff and panting. If only Peeta were here...

Peeta! He doesn't know where I am. I fall to my knees, annoyed with myself for being so weak, when I notice him. How he is here and why, I do not know. He shouldn't be here, yet he is, striding towards me, not the slightest bit worried. He calls, to me, obviously amused at how stunned I am,

"Need any help there, Catnip?"

"Gale?" I ask, though I know its him. He is standing before me, staring at the deer, genuinely impressed,

"That's one big stag! Here, I'll give you a hand with that." so, together, we manage to get the stag to victors village, so exhausted from dragging it here that all we can do is dump it in the road. The sight of Gale, with a stag in the middle of the road is odd yet familiar, even though we've never taken one down before, makes me laugh. Perhaps its my exhaustion, maybe I'm mad, but I cant stop.

Neither can Gale. We just stand there and laugh. Then he does something that hits me over the head with such force it makes me dizzy.

He kisses me.

And I am so dazed by it that I kiss him back. Just like before, before the rebellion, when my life was still crammed with problems, but then Gale was the savior, Peeta the problem. Now its switched.

Then I see Peeta. Watching us from his window, disbelief and sadness etched on his face.

I jerk away from Gale sharply, who looks at me, hurt. "What the hell, Gale?!"

"What?" he is not confused, I know him beyond the walls of facial expression he put's up. He knows.

"What was that for? You know I don't feel like that about you anymore!" I don't. Does this mean I feel it about Peeta? Maybe I do. I don't know. I must if I have this reaction.

"Why not?! Come on, Catnip, I love you! What's changed?!" and I don't say it, but the name hangs in the air,

"Why cant we just be friends?" I say, desperately trying to stay calm though on the inside I am panicking. What have I done? What If Peeta hates me now?

"What do you mean? Just now you were fine with it, but then you see Hijack Boy and its suddenly not okay?!" Gale's laughing scornfully, but I know inwardly he's angry, "Since when did you care what he thinks?" I don't answer, just retreat into Peeta's and leave Gale to shout into empty air.

The house is silent.

Too silent.

What was I expecting?

I carefully inch up the stairs and along the corridor to Peeta's room.

Something.

A creak.

A screech.

I don't know.

Even with my ear pressed against the door, there is more silence.

Why is silence so dreading anyway?

I can hear in silence, that makes it good, right?

Or maybe that's why its bad, because I can hear every bad thing rushing through my mind.

Prising it open, I cant help but be scared about what I might find. He's in there. Illuminated only by a lamp. Gripping the back of a chair, his back to me.

Fear seizes me, licks up my spine, paralyzes me. He's having an episode. I'm torn, run or stay? "I'm fine, Katniss."

That pulls me up short.

His voice would be normal, if it weren't for the pain laced in his voice as blatant as a screaming child. I take a tentative step forwards. "I had thought, maybe, that you... I... We... Apparently not. Have a nice life with Gale." it would be easier if he was having an episode. Only one thing may redeem him.

My comfort.

No... More.

My love.

"I'm not going anywhere." he only laughs,

"You said that to him once. Look where you left him." I expect his stinging reply to throw me. Instead, it makes me more determined to show that Gale's not the one I want.

"Fine then, I'm going to relive every moment of the games," I reach forward towards him and place my hand on his shoulder,

"With you," my hand slides over his obviously tense body to over his heart, where the beat that is there now once stopped. I guess it only further backs up what I said as the truth,

"Here." I apply a little pressure. After a moment, I feel another hand curl protectively over mine.

"Me too," his reply is a whisper. I barely have time to reply as I bend my head over him and linger momentarily over his lips,

"Gale said that to me once, and look where we are." The last word is drowned as he closes the gap. I guess that was the real test. Ok, so kissing him upside down is pretty weird and uncomfortable, but its so nice and warm I don't care.

But because he kissed me, I know I have him back. Gale can wait as long as he wants. I've found my star crossed lover, the boy with the bread. And finally, I love Peeta back.

I don't know what day of the week it is.

I don't know how long I've stayed here.

I don't even know if I'm alive.

All I know is that Prim is not here.

But Peeta is.

And that's how its going to be as long as I can help it.

**A/N: Alright, what up peeps? Hope you liked this very short interpretation of what happened after Mockingjay. I know its not exact as there are a few other things and I understand that after the primroses they grow back together and live happily ever after, but I didn't want to do that. Most of these kind of stories are set before the primroses, which means they have to follow the set storyline for the end of Mockingjay, but I wanted a clean palette. I would love it if you checked out my other story 'I Hate You So Move Before I Kill You' but I know its a little different to this and some of you won't like it, but just give it a chance. I recently hit 1,000 views, so that was like PFGNSDAFHJGJFBDFVGQERGBADFFHVUIDAGFHUIRVTY. God, I'm talking as though you guys actually exist when really this is all being written on a Document before this is even posted. How weird is that? ****So, Read, Review, Have Fun!**

**Thanks for reading this,**

**WolvesRunWild**


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